Cutting Loose
by Kade Riggs
Summary: Bobby has to come to terms with the life he's chosen before he wrecks everything that matters to him. Companion piece to Playing By the Rules.
1. Prologue

**VERY IMPORTANT AN:** This is the _same _prologue I used for my other Four Brothers fic, 'Playing By the Rules.' Here I'm branching off in another direction with Bobby. I thought it might be cool to look at how Bobby's life might've gone if Jack lived compared to if Jack died. The real start to this story comes in the next chapter, which I'll post immediately after I post this chapter.

* * *

In the movies there are rules about brothers. 

Rule #1: Brothers always love each other deep down, even if they don't show it.

Rule #2: The weakest brother always dies in order to motivate the stronger brothers to achieve some ultimate goal.

There are other rules, but those are the only two I give a shit about right now. My baby brother died the other day, and unlike in the movies where that sort of thing is used as a plot device, it was completely and utterly pointless in my case. I am Bobby-fucking-Mercer and I don't need any fucking motivation to succeed. What I need is my mind, my anger, and my brothers.

Within the last few days I've accused one brother of the unthinkable and listened to another helplessly scream my name while he bled out into the snow right in front of Ma's house. Instead of calling an ambulance I laid behind a brick wall, worried about my own ass getting shot up and listening to Jack scream. He died in my arms moments later. The worst part of it was he looked strangely happy just before he went, like wherever he was going, it sure beat the hell out of any life I could give him. I think if he'd wanted to stay, he could've. Jerry says I'm crazy, but I think maybe he gave up because when he called for me, I didn't come save him.

So yeah. Real bang up job I'm doing of being in charge. Just spectacular.

I've got one of Jack's cigarettes hanging from my lip and I take a slow draw from it every now and then. I'm sitting on his bed with my back against the wall, playing with his guitar. I don't know a single fucking note, but I'm screwing around with it anyway.

It's harder than it looks.

Angel's dealing with grief his own way. He and La Vida Loca are locked in the next room, going at it soft and slow. Jerry's off doing—whatever the fuck it is Jerry does these days.

Jack dies and we all do the same thing we always do when the shit seriously hits the fan; we 'deal' with it.

I'm getting awfully sick of dealing with shit this thick with blood.

Ang and Jerry both have girls to come home to, but I haven't had one for a long time. I came home to my baby brother because he didn't have anyone either. I called him a fag, a fairy for wearing rocker clothes and always fussing over his hair. Truth is—I don't think he actually had a sexual preference. He was too traumatized as a kid. Sex scared him to death. I paid for him to have a lap dance once and when the girl got close to him his eyes went all wide and his whole body started to shake. Thought the kid was having a fucking seizure. Took him most of an hour to snap out of it.

Really, I don't think he ever came out of his shell except with us. The evidence was plain at his funeral. No one else showed. No one cared.

The memories in the house don't do me any good. I can't turn around without seeing something that reminds me of Ma or Jack or both. Pictures on the walls, Jack's skates hanging in the entryway. I should just get the fuck out, but I sit here, strumming noise on Jack's guitar and wishing I'd let him teach me a few cords.

Ma used to say everyone needed a way to express themselves, work out their energy. It was hockey for me, girls for Angel, money deals for Jer, and music for Jack.

Well, here's some music for ya, Fairy. This is your big brother, Bobby. I hope you can hear me, 'cause I'm never going to say this again:

I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry I let you down.


	2. On My Way

_It's a beautiful day _

_The blue in the sky, the life in the rain _

_All you see, and all you breathe _

_I feel all the pain, I fear the change _

_I know I can't stay, and I wanna go home _

_It's just too far away, I'll never make it alone... _

_

* * *

_

I hit Chicago in the dead of night, so the traffic on the interstate isn't bad. Besides a short stop for gas, I've driven straight through from Detroit.

I could only stand it for a few days before I bailed. I thought maybe this time I could settle down for a while, get a job, get to know Jerry's kids. I couldn't. The gnawing sensation in my chest cavity that's plagued me since Jack's death only added to my usual sense of restlessness. Angel and Sofi went out for the night. They've done that a lot, since Sweet died. I saw them off, went upstairs, took a shower, brushed my teeth, packed my shit, got in the car, drove away.

I pulled a 'Bobby.' No words of warning, no note. I've done it a million times before, but I know this is the last straw for all of us. I'm not coming home this time. I don't even know where I'm going.

I found a cassette tape of Jack's under the seat when I dropped my keys. I figured it must've fallen out of his bag when I drove him and his stuff to the house after mom's funeral. I popped it in about thirty miles from the Michigan boarder. I expected a screaming punk band; it stunned me to hear his soft voice singing the lyrics to some rock ballad instead.

Men aren't supposed to cry, but it seems like I've done a lot of it lately. Tears run freely down my face while I listen to the soft tones of my baby brother's music and roll past the Windy City.

Mom made me go to church a lot when I was a kid. All of us went together on Sundays—but whenever I got into trouble I got dragged by the ear down to the confessional and I ended up attending at least one extra weekday mass before school. After enough time and prodding, I came to believe there must be a God, somewhere, watching over us. How else would a fuck up like me end up with a family that cared? Yes, I believe; but the hours pass by and I hardly notice, because at my core I'm ice cold with fear. I'm scared. I'm scared of dying, I'm scared there's nothing after life but darkness. I'm afraid Jackie's just gone, and that's it. Game over, son, no second chances.

I didn't even tell him I loved him before he went. I got too angry, too bent on revenge to stop and make sure he knew I gave a damn before he left the world behind. I'm not stupid enough to think I hurt any more than Jerry or Angel right now, but they've got company. I've got a nickel plated Colt, a smart mouth, and before now that's all I needed.

It's not enough anymore.

Twenty eight years. Twenty eight years and what do I have to show for it? A couple little brothers I can't protect anymore, and a couple headstones for my mother and Jack. That's what I've got. Oh yeah, and a badass reputation I no longer have the guts to uphold, because I know I'm due to run into someone I can't beat.

By the time the sun starts to come up I'm cruising past Iowa City, Iowa on I-80. Even though I'm more than ten hours south of where my trip started, it seems colder here. When I stop for gas and food the wind lashes me through my jacket.

I see a kid out of the corner of my eye just before I get back in my car. I whip my head around because for a second I think it's Jackie. Same lanky build, black sweatshirt instead of a coat, smoking a cig. It's just some teenager out taking his break, but I stand there and look at him, my tired brain struggling to process what I should do next.

"You got a question, Mister?" he finally calls in my direction, his brow furrowing.

I blink, looking around at the barren, snow covered land that goes off for miles in every direction, wondering what the fuck I should say. "Yeah," I finally call back. "You people got hockey in this state?"


	3. Trouble

_I'm hot and I'm restless _

_I can't sleep here one more night _

_It's over but I can't end it _

_So I take a bat to your windshield instead _

_Maybe if you're pissed you'll leave _

_Maybe you'll save me the trouble _

_Do us both the honor, sever the dream _

_

* * *

_

It's not like I _never_ lost a fight in my life. I just never lost to a three hundred pound college lineman before. It's worse, trust me.

I'm not sure why I decided to get into it with _that_ particular kid out of the hundreds packing the bar that night. Jerry says I'm crazy and he's right, but usually I check myself before knocking _too_ loudly on death's door.

In prison I got into a boxing program to keep in shape, sharpen my body and mind so I'd always have the upper hand in defending myself. I trained hard and a few weeks ago I easily outran Angel up six flights of stairs, even though he just got out of the marines this past year.

I definitely wasn't in good enough shape to take on that dude, though. He smoked me.

The last thing I remember was his fist coming around to connect with my face.

Makes me wonder what they feed these Iowa boys.

* * *

"Mr. Mercer. Can you hear me, Mr. Mercer?"

I turn my head toward the voice, wondering where I am, why everything's so bright. I'm seated, but I don't remember sitting down.

"We have your sister-in-law on the phone, Mr. Mercer. Do you understand?"

I don't understand, but I nod anyway. A phone is placed to my ear.

"Bobby?" a female voice says softly. I don't recognize it.

"Who is this?" I mumble. It hurts too much to speak normally; the right hinge of my jaw feels like it's got a screw driven through it and someone's pounding my eardrum with a sledgehammer.

"Bobby, it's Camille. Jerry's wife. Are you okay?"

I shrug, raising my eyebrows. "Should I be?" I ask, a chuckle dying in my chest. I get a little wacky when I'm in pain. I cuss up a storm or I start laughing; sometimes I do both.

"Oh, Bobby," she says, her voice strained. "Why d'ya gotta get yourself into so much trouble?"

I grunt, not up to responding with a sarcastic remark. I can hear her starting to cry on the other end of the line. I can hardly focus on her words because my head keeps drifting in and out of the clouds.

"I'm so sorry, but I can't tell Jerry about this... He got so upset when you left... I feel guilty...just want what's best... You understand, don't you? Please, just stay away... I know it's wrong for me to say it... Are you listening? Please say you understand... I'm sorry... We're all better off without you," she whispered, right before the line went dead.

* * *

I'm suicidal _and_ disowned. Once the pain in my head came down to a manageable level, those two facts hit me like a Mack truck doin' ninety.

I knew I couldn't go back to Detroit from the moment I left. Not even a guy like me can keep getting away with walking out on his family on a whim. I'm getting my just rewards—nursing a concussion, eating through a straw, living out of my car.

I could lie to myself and say I've seen worse times from a crushing, emotional standpoint; but in a way I haven't. This is what rock bottom looks like for Bobby Mercer, and it ain't pretty.

I'll survive it. I always do.

Most people would say I don't have it so bad. No one would guess it looking at me, but I'm no idiot when it comes to money. I've still got plenty of cash in the bank from the three years I played hockey and I never touched a dime of it. Ma even invested some of it in CDs or whatever for me, so over the past several years the sum has grown.

So yeah, I'll have a place to live and plenty of food to eat. That never changes. This time it just so happens I'm paying for it with money I earned legally.

If I can find a place with a vacancy, I have more than enough dough to pay rent in freaking Iowa until I get a steady job and then—then I'll wait...

* * *

Nice thing about Iowa people. They always assume the best of others. My new landlord showed me the efficiency I'd be renting from him right before I signed the lease. He asked what happened to my face and I told him it was a hockey accident. He smiled and told me a story about his son getting his teeth knocked out with a baseball bat. If he suspected I'd lied to him, he didn't let on. Must've figured it was none of his business, if he did. I like that—people minding their own problems. Makes me wish I'd ditched the big city life a long time ago.

If I had, maybe Jackie'd still be alive. Doubt anyone would've busted a cap in him in this state. No one packs around here. They solve things with their words or their fists—like men. I see college girls fearlessly walking the streets alone at night.

I like that a lot.

If I was anyone else, I'm sure by now I'd think eastern Iowa might be a nice place to settle down, raise a family.

I drop my single duffle bag in my new room, looking around at the empty space that's all mine. It's bigger, nicer than any room I've ever had in my life; cheaper too, ironically enough. And so God awful lonely.

"You shoulda been here with me, Jackie," I whisper—I still can't speak normally without causing myself pain. "You coulda gone to college while I worked. You could've majored in music or drama or whatever, started a band here, found a girlfriend. You coulda lived—if I hadn't let you die that day..."

I don't have a bed, so after going to the bathroom I sit down with my back to the wall and draw my knees up to my chest. I don't even bother to take my boots off.

I left home so many times, and for so long. Funny isn't it, how you don't miss things until you can't have them anymore? Things like family...

I sit up all night with my eyes wide open, reliving the horror and despair of my childhood—before I became a Mercer.

I've looped full circle. I started out in the world small and alone. For nineteen years I knew love and hope and belonging. For Jack's entire lifespan I lived happy for the most part, even though I didn't meet him until he was eight. Then, more than ten years later, he died, and I'm right back where I started.

It's gone. It's all gone. What's worse is I keep expecting Ma to walk in and wrap her arms around me, tell me she's proud of me, tell me I'm gonna be okay because I'm strong.

She's gone—and I'm afraid my strength's gone with her.


End file.
